


Slow Hands

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is a Tease, Established Relationship, Flirting, Frottage, M/M, Pick-Up Lines, Roleplay, Sam is Not Amused, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 07:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11203065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: It's a dangerous game to play in the types of bars they tend to frequent, especially in the states where they spend most of their time. Sending another man a drink is liable to get you shot. But right now, they're in a mid-sized city just outside of Chicago, so Dean must be feeling cosmopolitan.





	Slow Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Have some fun, cheeky, flirty Wincest, because lately I've been on a serious angst kick. Unsurprisingly, I am just as bad at writing flirting as I am at doing it. 
> 
> Title from Niall Horan's song with the same name, which was on repeat as I was writing, and also because apparently if I don't steal my titles from song lyrics they fucking suck. 
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback appears in my inbox at 6am local time, so I always wake up with something to look forward to.

It's been a successful day. Monster ganked, civilians saved, hunters unscathed. Can't ask for more than that. 

Celebratory drinks are in order. There’s a bar not far from the motel. Close enough to walk if the night runs long and the drinks go down easy. Perfect. 

Dean swings the Impala into a free spot in front of the bar. Sam gets out, stretches idly, and heads inside. Squinting in the dim light, he spots an empty booth: no bar seats for the Winchesters, who will take an “uncool” booth for the sake of solid wood at their backs, thank you very much. Easier to not get knifed in the back, which is a strong possibility on a regular night and a likelihood on a night like this, when Dean is riding a high. 

Sam slides into the booth, skidding along the faux leather bench. Dean is - nowhere to be found. 

He reasons that Dean must have forgotten something in the car. Or something. There's usually an explanation for the things Dean does, even if it's not apparent immediately.

Sam taps his fingers on the tabletop idly. A shadow falls across his hand and he looks up to find the bartender with a beer on his tray and an equally nervous and irritated expression on his face.

“Oh, sorry, I didn't order that,” Sam says politely. The bartender's face scrunches a little further. “I know,” he replies, looking vaguely constipated. “The, uh, guy over there sent it.”

Sam follows the point of his finger. Dean's broad back is seated at the bar, always recognizable.

Ah. Now Sam gets it.

He nods to the bartender who visibly relaxes and sets the frosty bottle down in front of Sam. He disappears as quietly as he'd arrived and as he heads behind the bar, Dean climbs off his stool, surreptitiously passing the guy a folded bill.

See, Dean has this game he likes to play sometimes. Sam doesn’t really get it. Dean claims it's training, that he's got to keep in practice with his flirting ‘cause you never know when it'll come in handy. To his credit, whenever a situation calls for the right kind of person to be charmed, Dean is the logical choice.

So on nights when they go out and Dean is feeling good, he'll occasionally run through this little charade. Sam will roll his eyes, but he'll always go along with it, because it always results in some of the best sex they have.

So he leans back against the padded back of the booth and watches Dean saunter towards him, loose-hipped and casual. As he pulls up alongside the booth, he favours Sam with the full-power Dean Winchester special: a slow, easy grin that makes his green eyes sparkle. Even after thirty years, Sam's heart pounds a little faster at that smile.

“Hi,” Dean says easily, lingering at the table - close, but not close enough to be creepy.

“Hey,” Sam replies. He lifts the beer toward Dean. “Thanks for the drink.”

“You're welcome,” Dean returns, backing off just a little. Every movement is practiced, deliberate, but looks natural. Sam only knows because he _knows_. “Mind if I join you?”

Now Sam has a choice. He can play hard to get: claim that someone is joining him, or some other excuse. Dean will work with whatever he's given. But Sam is feeling good too, riding the same high Dean is, and the laser focus of Dean's attention already has his dick stirring in his jeans. He doesn't feel like dragging this out. “Sure,” he says.

Dean's grin widens just a fraction and Sam's fingers slip a bit on the neck of his beer. Dean slides into the booth across from him and signals to the bartender, who is watching the scene play out, bemused.

It's a dangerous game to play in the types of bars they tend to frequent, especially in the states where they spend most of their time. Sending another man a drink is liable to get you shot; that is, if the bartender will even agree to do it. Most of the time they don't want the hassle. But right now, they're in a mid-sized city just outside of Chicago, so Dean must be feeling cosmopolitan. Sam just thanks his lucky stars that Dean didn't _send_ him a Cosmopolitan.

The guy comes over and Dean orders a scotch and soda. A calculation, just as every move in this venture: it's not too pretentious, not too formal, not too easy. No one will look askance at him.

The bartender leaves and Dean turns the wattage of his eyes on Sam. “So, what brings you out tonight?” he asks casually, leaning back just a little. Getting comfortable, but not making it weird. It's a classic line, almost cheesy, but the oldies are oldies for a reason: they work. Sam shrugs. “I was supposed to be meeting someone, but it looks like I've been stood up.” A little dig at Dean, but a plausible answer.

Dean's face is smooth, never gives him away, but Sam knows that he's smirking internally. Instead, his forehead creases just a bit and the corners of his mouth turn down slightly. “Huh,” he says, dropping his voice a fraction. “That doesn't seem right. Who would stand you up?” He's smooth as buttered silk and Sam's skin prickles in response. “An idiot,” he answers wryly.

Dean's answering chuckle is honey, rich and dark. “Obviously,” he says. “Well, I guess their loss is my gain.” His lips quirk upwards again, one eyebrow rising in a question that Sam finds himself wanting so badly to answer.

“I guess it is,” he says. Dean's eyes hold on his, the extended contact bold, but not unsettling. Sam feels his skin flushing.

The bartender arrives with Dean's drink and he accepts it with a gracious smile and a quiet “Thank you.” Sam uses the break in Dean's focus to attempt to pull himself together, pressing his hand firmly against the growing bulge in his jeans. Damn Dean to hell for being so fucking good at this.

They're alone again and Dean raises his drink toward Sam. “Cheers,” he says, and as Sam clinks his bottle against Dean’s glass, Dean shifts imperceptibly so their fingers graze ever so slightly. “Here's to pretty new faces,” he continues, and Sam has to concentrate on not choking on the swallow of beer. It's a fucking _crime_ , how well this stupid shtick works.

Dean sets his glass down and licks his lips, a seemingly innocuous motion intended to draw attention to his gorgeous mouth. Sam grits his teeth. That fucking perfect cocksucking mouth. Sam would know. “So, you got a name to go along with that pretty face?” Dean asks. Sam feels his teeth creak. “Dean - ” he starts, but he’s cut off by the quick sweep of Dean’s lopsided grin.

“Dean, huh? Well, Dean, I’m Sam. Nice to meet you.” Dean takes another sip of his drink, turning his head as he swallows to highlight the long column of his throat; he knows that too much prolonged eye contact gets creepy real quick. He glances around the bar with a mildly interested expression, just long enough to make Sam crave his gaze again, and then he rewards with a flash of green eyes. Sam feels sweat gathering at the back of his neck.

“So, Dean, what do you do for work?” Dean presses lightly, casually. There’s nothing outlandish in his playbook, just tried-and-true lines that have worked for so long that there’s no reason to expect them not to. Still, Sam is irritated and horny as fuck and just about done with this game, so he devotes his efforts to trying to trip Dean up. He passes his hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly in that way he knows Dean fucking loves, ducks his chin just a little, playing the big sweetheart. It’s a move just as calculated as all of Dean’s, and while Sam isn’t necessarily the first choice to sweet-talk a waitress or a nurse, he sure as hell knows how to push Dean’s buttons.

Dean’s eyes narrow just a fraction, so imperceptibly that only Sam would spot it, and Sam high-fives himself internally. “I’m an exotic dancer,” he says coyly.

Dean’s only tell is the way his knuckles go just a bit white where they’re circled around his glass. When he speaks, his voice is smooth and calm. His eyes widen a little in surprise. “Wow, that’s an interesting career.” He lets his gaze rake up and down Sam - whatever isn’t hidden beneath the table - and when he focuses back on Sam’s face, Sam finds his breath coming a bit faster. “I hope I’m not being too forward, but I can certainly see that you’d be perfect for it.”

It’s not even a good line, Sam seethes, ‘cause Dean can’t see shit unless he’s gotten some X-ray specs out of the comic book he’d been reading last week. Still, the compliment goes to his head and he curses himself silently.

Dean leans in across the table, dropping his voice low enough that Sam is forced to meet him halfway in order to hear his words over the noise in the bar. His grin is wicked and cheeky now, openly and shamelessly. “So, what are my chances of getting a private show?

Sam is ten thousand percent done. “Why don’t we get outta here and we’ll see?” he shoots back, slipping out of the booth and heading for the door. He hears Dean’s low laugh, slows his stride to give Dean time to toss money on the table to cover his drink, picks up the pace again when Dean’s boots sound on the floor behind him.

When they step out into the chilly night, Sam turns on his heel and fists his hand in Dean’s shirt. He drags his brother down the alley next to the bar, down behind the dumpster; not the sexiest locale, but Sam is aching and the five minute ride to their motel is five minutes too long. He needs his hands on Dean _now_.

“You fucker,” he growls, shoving Dean against the bricks. Dean goes with it, pliant and easy in Sam’s nearly bruising grip. His grin is bright and cocky. “Oh, so you’re that kind of guy,” he teases, tipping his head back invitingly. His pale skin glows in the dim lighting.

“Would you shut _up_ , I swear...” Sam pins him, draping his whole body over Dean’s, taking full advantage of every inch, every pound of muscle he’s got over his fucking cocktease of a brother. Dean is incandescent beneath him, green eyes sparkling, teeth grinning white and perfect. Sam feels like he’s trying to hold a handful of fire.

He latches onto Dean’s throat, sucking a dark mark into that expanse of fair skin. Dean groans, deep and long, sinking his hands below the waistband of Sam’s jeans and boxers, cold hands like a brand on Sam’s ass.

There’s no need for anything fancy: they’ll have time to make it lazy and languid once they’re back at the motel. Still, Sam takes a second to run his hands up and down Dean’s flanks, slow and smooth, appreciating all the skin hidden away beneath flannel and denim, like a present waiting to be unwrapped.

When Dean shivers under his touch, Sam’s got what he wanted.

He leans in for a kiss, deep and strong, tasting the scotch on Dean’s tongue. Still connected at the mouth, Sam thrusts hard, rocking their hips together, and swallows down Dean’s breathy sounds.

Dean digs in his fingers and hauls Sam in closer. They grind against each other, hard and effective, chasing down their orgasms together. It doesn’t take long; never does, after one of these nights, and soon Sam is gasping, crushing his pelvis against Dean’s, coming hot and wet in his pants like a horny teenager. Dean makes a soft, delighted sound at the feeling of warmth seeping through the denim and he follows close behind, eyes fluttering closed as he spills into his own jeans.

They’re squishy and sticky and disgusting, Sam’s forehead resting on Dean’s collarbone, Dean’s head dropped back against the brick wall. “Enough practice for tonight?” Sam asks dryly, once he can get words out again, and Dean’s chuckle rumbles where their chests are mashed together. “Suppose so,” he concedes. “Plus you still owe me that private show.”

Sam snorts and backs off and the chill air rushes between them. Dean shifts uncomfortably in his come-damp clothes. “Gross. Let’s roll.”

They pile into the car, all hands and teasing glances, and their night is just getting started.

 

 


End file.
